


Love in a Bottle

by thislittlekumquat



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Fluff, M/M, one use of the word fuck sorry to the kiddos, pure fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 04:03:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18652522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thislittlekumquat/pseuds/thislittlekumquat
Summary: Just a little bit of Prohibition-era fluff! I offered to pitch in and write a thing for a HankCon Valentine's gift exchange, very late, this one's for Fishy!!!!!I hope you enjoy, dear!





	Love in a Bottle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fishydwarrows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishydwarrows/gifts).



“A new supplier? I dunno, Reed, last ‘new supplier’ you brought in almost cost me the place.” Hank knew that Gavin was paranoid and therefore fastidious about checking these guys out, but someone needed to give him shit for something, since inevitably the quality of the booze would suffer even if the safety of its procurement was airtight.

 

One of the musicians was polishing his brass in the corner - he liked to come early to relax, loosen up, get in the mood. Hank let him, because having him and his crew doing music all evening long really drummed up business. Especially when the quality of the alcohol, illegal or not, was questionable.

 

“Look, you need someone new, if you stick with the same two people all the time, you are bound to get your ass landed in the slammer,” Reed retorted. He was frowning angrily, face still ruddy from the early autumn wind outside, and his hair was, as usual, a mess.

 

Hank let out a sigh. “Fine, bring him by tonight. Just him. I don’t want a whole gang like last time. You wanna talk about dancing with disaster-”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I fuckin get it. Won’t happen again, criminy. I’ll see ya around, I gotta go take care of some business.” Spinning on his heel, Gavin Reed, biggest thorn in Hank’s side and also best weapon in his arsenal, walked out, hands shoved in his pockets moodily. Good riddance, at least for a few hours.

 

~

 

Those few hours passed remarkably well. There wasn’t any current trouble with Hank’s suppliers, but Reed was right, it was good to mix things up. However, for now, business was still booming, and it was a lively crowd for a Thursday night. Some youthful guy who figured himself an intellectual was yammering about Stalin and some scheme he had for turning the economy over there around in a smart five years. He’d heard about it in the papers, he said. Another guest at the bar near to his elbow retorted with a scathing remark about how maybe if ol’ Joe would invest in Wall Street like the rest of the proper world, he’d be sharing the same cash flow they were enjoying this very evening. He looked at Hank, behind the bar, with a grin, hoping to get a laugh from the normally stoic man, as the rest of the bar burst into laughter. Hank just grunted and held the glass he was polishing up to one of the new electric light fixtures he’d had the funds to install a decade ago.

 

He wasn’t precisely opposed to folks talking news, but sometimes he wished they’d leave him out of it. Sure, things were going well now, but they never went well forever. He was old enough by now to know when you’d had too much of a good thing. And at any rate, just because his business was doing well didn’t mean things were perfect. Every day the same, a moderate risk every time someone new came by or some new supplier of booze sold him product. Felt like half his old buddies had had their businesses busted in the last decade. Right now he was profitable, but who knew what tomorrow would bring. Or even later tonight.

 

He was still in some sort of melancholic mood when Reed came in the back way and rapped on the end of the bar to announce himself. Hank waved a hand at Tina to manage the bar for a half an hour, and ducked into the back with Reed.

 

“Let’s get this over with, it’s busier than I expected tonight, I don’t want Chen to have to deal with the genteel fools on her own for too long.”

 

Gavin scoffed. “She’ll be fine, she’s more likely to give them the decking they deserve than anyone else on the block. C’mon, the guy’s out back, he brought so many samples, he had to bring his partner, too.”

 

Hank wasn’t in the business of judging people beyond what he needed out of them. Gavin Reed had yet to bring him any police informants accidentally. Tina Chen had yet to let anyone destroy his furniture. His customers had yet to skip town on their tabs. That was all that mattered to him.

 

So it was with some surprise that he met Gavin’s new contacts - two brothers named Connor and Niles - who were unlike any he’d ever met in the moonshine business. Surprise because Connor (who was clearly the eldest, despite being smaller and cheerier) was a cosmopolitan sort of fellow who looked like he probably shared a lecture hall with the young upstarts talking about Old Man Stalin. 

 

“I hear you’re in the market for a fresh supply of alcohol, Mr. Anderson,” Connor said after Reed had introduced them and while grasping Hank’s hand with an unexpectedly firm grip.

 

“I might be,” Hank said, cautiously, trying not to stare as he took in Connor’s brown eyes and easy smile. “Depends on the quality. I’m a successful man, you know, I don’t need cheap liquor.”

 

The taller brother, who was icy and quiet, frowned ever so slightly, but Connor laughed. “Good. I have high quality stuff, and I don’t need a second-rate buyer. Care to try some?”

 

Hank, hand still in Connor’s, nodded grudgingly, and Reed helped Niles crack open some of the crates. Hank turned around to go find some disused glassware in a cabinet, rubbing them with the rag he had over his shoulder and offering one to Connor. He didn’t trust any seller who wouldn’t sample his own goods with Hank. Connor took the glass with a grin and winked - winked! - at Hank. Hank in return made a noncommittal grunt as he gestured at the casks the other two had gotten open. Connor seated himself lightly on a crate, crossing his legs lazily, and gestured for Hank to sit opposite him.

 

Hank had to admit, it was good stuff. He had no idea where the Stern brothers had learned to make such quality booze, seeing as how neither of them looked old enough to have been more than zit-faced teens when the amendment was passed, but he found that it was smarter to not pry into these things. Connor’s laughter was still ringing in his ears as he and his brother drove away, promising to bring a real supply tomorrow, since Hank had so kindly, as Connor put it, given them a respectable down payment for their cooperation and the week’s supply they’d cheekily brought with them.

 

~

 

Before Hank knew it, delivery day was his favorite day of the week. He was pretty sure he was the grumpiest asshole on the block, and he never really felt any less grumpy.  But when Connor came around, he always personally saw the delivery to Hank’s store room, something Hank didn’t dare question after the second time, for fear of finding out why. And worse (better, said a small, rebellious part of Hank’s brain) than that, he would usually hang around, and talk. Hank had never been much of an idle conversationalist, but he found that talking with Connor was alright. 

 

More than alright, in fact.

 

Connor didn’t mind if Hank’s back was to him while he cleaned, or if Hank barely looked up as he worked. It was usually in the early afternoon, before real business hours. They were often alone. Hank liked those times best, because he felt like less of a creep for stealing long glances at Connor while he leaned back in a chair, tilting it on its back legs, exposing a perfect Adam’s apple and running a hand through his gracefully tousled hair, only tousling it more gracefully as he did so. 

 

It would have made Hank feel old, worn, and dirty, if it weren’t for how eagerly Connor spoke to him, and how easily he touched him, a brush of the hand, a pat on the shoulder, a slap on the back as he made a joke. His jokes were kind of bad. But Hank was quickly becoming obsessed with his laughter, so he didn’t exactly mind.

 

One day, after some time had passed, he found Connor at his bar before him, standing in the back alley just beaming at him with that disarming smile and with one foot up on a crate he’d gotten out of his delivery truck.

 

“Morning, Con. You’re up early.” Hank still felt a bit sleepy - he was planning on at least one more cup of coffee while he started up his daily routine.

 

“Hank, it’s already almost noon,” Connor laughed, standing up straight, both feet on the ground. “Late night last night?”

 

Hank scrubbed at his eyes wearily as he nodded. Connor came over and put a hand on his shoulder gently. “I did show up earlier than normal, though,” he said. “And I brought a special new liquor I’ve been working on. To celebrate.”

 

Hank froze, and blinked down at the shorter man. “To celebrate?” he asked.

 

The midday sun beating down on them in the back alley behind Hank’s speakeasy highlighted all of the different shades in Connor’s hair, which was more tousled than normal, it seemed. Hank wanted badly to run his hands through it. His eyes were glowing in the light, a rich, vibrant brown, as he looked up at Hank and said, “It’s been a year since we met.”

 

Hank stared at him. It was October again, the young aspiring intellectuals had moved on from Stalin to stock market speculation as prices and returns soared unimaginably higher, and Hank had never felt older, or lighter. “So it has,” he said. “How’d you remember the date?”

 

Connor just smiled at him, lines of his face softening into an expression Hank sincerely hoped he didn’t look at anyone else with, because it was precious to him in ways he wasn’t ready to admit to himself yet. “I went home that night and marked it in my day book, because I knew already you’d be special,” he said, the softest smirk possible on his face. They were completely alone, and Hank, once again against all of his judgement, better and otherwise, put his hand on Connor’s shoulder as well.

 

“You must be a fortune teller or something, kid. Although if I had to call one of us special, it would be you.”

 

Connor laughed, softly, because he was leaning a bit closer now. He wasn’t terribly shorter than the older man, and Hank had the absurd urge to crane his neck down ever so slightly. What the fuck was he doing?

 

Kissing Connor, as it turned out, was what the fuck he was doing. And Connor for his part was sliding one hand up his chest and threading his free hand behind Hank’s head to take a gentle fist of Hank’s hair, which hadn’t made it into a ponytail yet this morning. Hank sighed softly into Connor’s mouth and wrapped his arms around Connor as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Because now that it was happening, it sure as hell wasn’t stopping, not if Hank had anything to say about it.

 

He’d gotten to work way too early in the day, and somehow by the time Tina rolled in to start her normal duties around two o’clock, she had to do most of Hank’s work as well, because he’d gotten started late, and couldn’t seem to stop glancing at Connor, who was making a perfect pest of himself as he went around the place commenting on how badly it needed cleaning, fixing, and general updating. As if he owned it now.

 

Hank, to Tina’s surprise, didn’t seemed bothered in the slightest.

 

~

 

It was a brisk autumn day. The sun was shining, but the wind bit right through you if you walked down a street that was too wide or too narrow. The back door slammed open, and Hank, behind his counter, shook his head as he heard the wind howling someone inside before the door slammed shut behind them.

 

One of the musicians was polishing his brass in the corner - he liked to come early to relax, loosen up, get in the mood. Hank let him, because having him and his crew doing music all evening long really drummed up business. Even if the quality of the liquor was good, Hank's wasn't exactly the only establishment on the block.

 

"I dunno, Reed, last time you promised me a great new product, I got saddled with a lot of extra costs."

 

Gavin snorted. "Look, you need something new, if you stick with the same two brews all the time, you're bound to get your ass landed in hot water with you-know-who."

 

Hank let out a sigh. "Fine, bring them by tonight. Just them. I hate all of the assistants they keep, running around talking a mile a minute and acting like they own the place."

 

Gavin cracked a grin at him. "Yeah, yeah, I fuckin' get it," he said, with a twinkle in his eye.

 

~

 

Hank wasn't in the business of judging booze beyond how smoothly it went down. All anyone needed out of it was to get drunk. At least in this part of town, even now that it was legal again. But Niles and Connor had yet to bring him any duds.

 

So it was with some surprise that Hank heard them before they were even out of their truck. Niles and Connor had become more easily distinguishable to his old eyes - maybe it was that Niles' beauty marks had turned to freckles, and Connor kept cutting his hair ever so slightly shorter. Or maybe it was because Hank only ever had eyes for Connor, whenever he was in the room.

 

He turned to Hank with a sigh and an all-suffering look as he hopped out of the truck, but he spared a wink - a wink! like always - for Hank as Niles and Gavin unloaded some crates. Hank made a noncommittal grunt in reply, and offered a tray of four empty glasses, so they could all decide for the brothers who was right about which product was better.

 

And before Hank knew it, he'd ended up selecting both, and business picked up again, as it always did after a new concoction ended up on his shelves.

 

These days the business made him more tired than ever, but he didn't feel his age, not quite the way he once did. Some mornings he still woke up stiffer than he'd like to admit, each vertebrae crackling as he sat up, stretched, bent back down to kiss Connor and detach himself from the stranglehold around his  waist. It was part of their daily routine where Hank's desire to do work early did battle with Connor's desire to make full use of the bed for another several hours, in every sense of the phrase.

 

One morning, however, Hank woke up to a cold, empty bed and the smell of sizzling bacon. He stumbled to the bathroom and then shuffled into the small kitchen. "Morning, Con. You're up early," he said, still a bit sleepy, and already planning on how to get coffee into his body as fast as possible.

 

"Hank, it's already almost noon," Connor laughed, standing up straighter to turn his head and nuzzle his cheek into Hank's beard as the larger man wrapped sturdy arms around him where he stood in front of the stove. "But you're awake just in time, I have breakfast all made up, to celebrate."

 

Hank, used to such statements from Connor by now, blinked down at him before kissing him on the temple. "To celebrate?" he asked. The midday sun was filtering in through some moderately dingy curtains - Connor had been talking about laundering them for weeks, but they remained slightly smoke-stained nonetheless - and Hank felt as if they were in a little palace of light all their own.

 

Connor turned off the gas on the stove and set the cooking fork aside, turning in Hank's arms with a smile on his face. Hands smoothing up Hank's chest to cup his face, he said, "It's been ten years since we met."

 

Hank's face split into one of his rare, exceedingly soft smiles at that. It was October again. He forgot every year. And like every year, Connor didn't seem to mind.

 

"So it has been," he said. "And you're still here."

 

Connor laughed, softly, because their foreheads were pressed together, noses brushing, and he was cherishing the peace, the stillness. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be, love."

 

Hank pressed a soft kiss to Connor's lips, pulling away for a brief moment to reply, "And there's no one I'd rather have here, to boot," before kissing him good morning, properly this time.

**Author's Note:**

> Please consider before you worry too much about me missing any historical nuances that I already made the conscious choice to go for smooth fluff rather than gritty historical accuracy.
> 
> Also please note that dabbid babbage is The Worst TM, so I have stolen his IP and it's my canon now!
> 
> And thanks as always to [OhNoMyBreadsticks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhNoMyBreadsticks/pseuds/OhNoMyBreadsticks) for being my co-conspirator <3


End file.
